The Dying Hours
by Funsmoke
Summary: A fallen Angel, he lies in the goldsheathed palaces of Mazenderan. A young Lioness struggles to assert herself. Their tie? An oath signed in the blood of afterbirth and the promise of love. Stranger than you dreamt it, Leroux based. Companion to Sa Femme.
1. Prologue

The Dying Hours

Prologue

A sickle-bladed moon sliced neatly into the black-blood sky which brooded moodily over the Sapphire Palace of the Lioness of Mazenderan. The air, suppressing breath with its moisture and heat, remained unmoved even by the stillest breath of the wind-goddess. Azaraksh Shah Qajar stood at the furthest end of the balcony, teetering precariously over the balustrade, the golden tassels of her fez hanging into her eyes. She was thoughtful tonight, this jewel of Persia, this lioness of the desert. She had executed eight men that morning, dealing the first blow herself, in a single swoop removing the treasonous infidel's head. After she had made a spectacle of herself, as her position required, she had disappeared from the public eye for the day.

She lifted a jewelled vial to her lips and poured scalding tea down her throat. Between her teeth was clutched a cheap sweet to flavour the bitter brew, and she savoured the aromatic herbs on her tongue. Her serving girl, Leila, scurried forward to refill the drinking-vessel, but Azaraksh placed the empty cup in her hand and waved her away. 'There is not anything in the world, Leila,' she murmured, 'that will appease me now.'

The other girl bowed and retired. Her mistress was a creature of many moods and minds, but the majority of these moods was one of heavy, cotton-mouthed melancholy. Leila thought that perhaps it was because she was not yet married, and she was already thirteen. Her mother had been married at six, and Nasser al-Din Shah, the present sultan, had been born when she was fourteen. Of course, the girl's status as Shah of Mazenderan was an office of great responsibility, and she would serve for as long as possible. When she was married, there was no doubt that she would straightaway bear children, and then she would be far too busy with her own house for the affairs of the nation.

As her maid disappeared, the oppressed air that seemed to swath Azaraksh's shoulders like a heavy veil was lifted, and she hefted herself boldly over the gilt balustrade, seating herself on the railing. It was a twelve-foot drop to the ground, but the young Lioness of Mazenderan took it as easily as her namesake feline might have, falling into a crouch and sliding into a covey of shrubs beneath. The guards that stood before the gates of her palace gave no sign that they had heard anything. Creeping along the wall, she took cover behind date palms and limestone sculptures, following a carefully plotted path until she arrived in her entryway parlour. It was devoid of a single soul, and she scampered ably along the halls until she came to her study. Again, neither servants nor guardsmen in sight. _And they ask me why I do not feel safe._ She sighed again. To infiltrate her own dwelling-place was an old past time, and she was accustomed to masking herself with shadows, hiding like a bat from the light.

Her eyes fell on her desk, and a new sheaf of papers littered across it. She was accustomed to diffusing a critical situation in the morning, only to be presented with another band of rebels or goat-rustlers after supper, and sometimes even before she had quite gotten through with the first duty. She was bound to Mazenderan, and to her office. She put her hand forward and nipped up the first letter. It was hand-written by her brother, obviously in somewhat of a hurry, and bore no seal. A private matter, then, and one unconnected with her office. She rarely saw Nasser these days, now that he was busily engaged in choosing a suitable and powerful husband for his sister from a never-ending slough of eligible men, sons of merchants and nobles, princes of neighbouring kingdoms—even various nomadic tribes had sought allegiance by marriage with the powerful nation of Persia.

Ripping open the envelope, she unfolded the letter, and scanned the page. It was brief, inviting her to his Ruby Palace in Teheran for supper the following week. He said their mother would be in attendance, and that they were being summoned to greet a foreign diplomat from France. Azaraksh knew that this meant. When Europeans came to call at her brother's door, she was inevitably required to don either the veil of a 'proper' woman, or to play the part of a man, the young Crown Prince to the throne of Persia. She relished neither farce, abhorring lying, but she far preferred the latter option. She had not dressed as a woman since her childhood, since her father, Mohammad Shah Qajar, had been in power, and neglect of his stringent rules concerning the women of Persia had been punishable by imprisonment or death, depending on how 'obscene' the offence. There had been little mourning in any house when he had died in battle with a Zoroastrian war-tribe, but the great cry of rejoicing at his succession by Nasser had appeased Azaraksh's mother, Mahd-e Ulia, who still, nine years later, wore widow's chains.

Azaraksh slumped into her chair, secreting the letter in a hidden drawer, and getting to work on the remainder of the papers, which were all related to her office. There were at least fifteen appeals for justice, or vengeance, on a well-known merchant in the fifth district, which amused the girl greatly. There were also various bills of sale, shop-accounts, and taxes to take care of. She put her head in her hands and got to work.


	2. I The Favrasi

I – The Favrasi

_In Heaven a spirit doth dwell_

_"Whose heart-strings are a lute";_

_None sing so wildly well_

_As the angel Israfel,_

_And the giddy stars (so legends tell),_

_Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell_

_Of his voice, all mute._

—Edgar Allan Poe

"Israfel"

Nasser al-Din Shah was the Sultan of Persia. That much was certain, from the first glance at him. His figure, broad-shouldered and taller by a head than that of most Persian men, was one which commanded instant attention and respect. The rich vestments of his office were spotless, embroidered with garish patterns in thread-of-gold, and he wore, habitually, a highly polished, jewel-encrusted scimitar at his belt. He cut a dashing and intimidating figure, which was entirely his intention as he studied the row of painted faces lined before him. Their mothers sat behind them, all wearing the traditional hijab. Their daughters' heads were uncovered, bared to the Sultan, as his potential concubines, and ultimate submission was required, if they were even to be considered for the position as future members of his harem.

Nasser stifled a yawn, and glanced behind himself, to where his mother, Mahd-e Ulia, reclined on a couch, eating dates. Her eyes were half-closed, and she amused herself by stroking a lazy lioness which lounged beside her.

'You are all dismissed,' he murmured. Turning toward the worried mothers in the background, he raised his voice. 'I will see your daughters tomorrow, but one at a time. There is no way to make a selection from so diverse a flower-garden if one does not see each blossom's charms in perspective.' this seemed to satisfy them, as they bowed quickly, and, collecting their respective daughters, they hurried away. Nasser yawned and threw himself down beside his mother. The lioness, Rokshana, stood and ambled toward him, laying her head heavily on his stomach. He cursed, and shoved it away. 'What do you think Azaraksh will say?'

'It is a fitting reward, my son, for her services to you in the past month. She has travelled from one end of Mazenderan to the other, rounding up the offenders of the law, enforcing your peace, and bringing the justice of the Sultan to every corner of your realm. She has always adored curiosities, and this man is the most curious of all creatures I have seen in my life. He brought me great joy, before your father drove him away, and he will entertain her greatly.'

'But a man...in her Palace, sleeping down the hall? Is it moral, mother?'

'The Favrasi slept in my bedroom, on the floor beside me, armed with his magical lasso, to protect me. He will do the same with Azaraksh.' Nasser's abrupt laughter made Mahd-e turn her head. 'And what do you find so amusing, my son?'

'Do you think Azaraksh would tolerate such a thing? She scarcely cares for the animals in her menagerie. There is the Turkmen horse, which she loves, but I have never seen her show any affection for another creature, besides the Akhal-Teke.'

'Ah, yes, Farshideh, the golden one.' the Sultana smiled. 'She still favours the Zoroastrian who bred it.'

'That still does not answer my question. Will she tolerate this stranger?'

'She will adore him,' Mahd-e made a pacifying gesture, and snapped her fingers at Rokshana. The lioness glanced imperiously at her, but made no movement to retire from Nasser's side. 'You shall see. I have written to her already, and told her that I have a gift for her.'

'I have not even met this man. How can you be so certain?' Nasser raged inwardly at his mother's imperturbable calm. 'He could be a murderer!'

'He is.'

'And you would still allow...'

Mahd-e raised a hand, silencing her son instantly. 'Listen to me. Azaraksh is thirteen years of age. She is a woman, and she has not yet even been betrothed. Yes, you may say that there is no prince who is worthy of her hand, but I say, why should she marry a prince? You wish to marry her to a powerful and wily man? You will not find a more brilliant or powerful than he.'

'You mean...'

'I do not intend for Azaraksh to marry the Favrasi,' Mahd-e smiled in her most beguiling manner, 'only to become as closely entangled with him as possible, without compromising our family's honour, of course.'

Nasser sighed. 'Tell me, mother, and do not give me the lie. Was this man your lover?'

The Sultana's eyes flicked up to her son's. They were glaring daggers. 'I was married to your father. I loved him, never mind that our marriage was a matter of convenience. I adored your father, enough to give up my favourite magician when he was ordered to be executed. I thought my Favrasi, my guardian angel, was dead all these years. Now that he has returned to me, I cannot allow myself...'

'You were in love with this man!' Nasser stood, fuming.

'No. He was very important to me. He took care of me. Protected me, when even your father refused to grant me a single spearman to stand outside my door when I was asleep. He was...my guiding spirit. Now that I have you, I will give him to my daughter. She deserves him. She has no one, Nasser, and even if we were to offer her someone, she would refuse. I ask her, nearly every day, when we walk together in the afternoon, in my palace garden, whether she would like to be married. She refuses, every time, or evades the question. She has no friends, Nasser. She needs the Favrasi.'

'So you will deceive her?'

'Yes. For her own sake.' Mahd-e rose, and paced to a window. Leaning on the frame, she continued. 'You have no idea, my son, how alone I was when your father died. I wept for him, and I wept that my Favrasi was not at my side, to comfort me. My daughter shall never know a moment such as that. She will, perhaps, marry one day, but she will always have her Favrasi. My Favrasi.'

'As you wish, mother.' Nasser made obeisance to the Sultana, and left the room, his heavy footsteps denoting his displeasure with her plan.

Leila stepped back and admired her creation. Sher Azaraksh was a splendid sight, and would have been a son for Mohammed Shah Qajar to be proud of. Despite the fact that when she stood at her full height, she stopped just shy of five feet and three inches tall, her slender, wiry figure was elegantly adorned in a pair of wide indigo sherwal, a coat of cochineal, embroidered with a dizzying floral pattern in crimson, matching her wide kooshak, which wrapped round her waist. In the sash was stuck a pair of jewelled daggers, and on her feet she wore knee-high, black camel's leather horsemen's boots. Her turban matched her sherwal, and the tassels of her fez were gold. She glanced at herself once more in the glass, flicking herself gently under her chin, out of habit, wondering whether she had forgotten anything. Leila watched her mistress, and the thought processes flashing ably behind her eyes.

Azaraksh was an attractive enough girl, but she had always lamented that she had not been born a man. She had a strong jaw, and an intelligent, though serious forehead. Her eyes were like black diamonds, and glinted with an odd, dangerous fire when her mind became active. They were large, and deeply set in her skull, giving her a rather hollow, languid disposition, and she had often been teased by her brother for her 'camel's eyelashes,' as they were long and heavy, a thick fringe of jetty black which swept her cheeks when she lowered her eyes. From her brow descended a straight, small nose, hooked, but finely formed. Her lips were round, a small but full Cupid's bow, with a habitual downward turn, adding to her seriousness. There were times when she looked upon her mother's beauty-that celebrated, exotic beauty which the girl knew would shoot fire into a man's heart and intoxicate his senses. Mahd-e had used her beauty many times for the good of Persia, and Azaraksh had watched her. The girl knew that she would never measure up to her mother's appearance, and had contented herself with wiles and her power as Shah of Mazenderan.

She marched down the halls of the Golden Palace, her mother's dwelling place. She had arrived in Teheran early that morning, after a journey of two days. Traversing staircase and pathway, she prepared herself mentally for the banquet. It would not be difficult, this meeting, for she would be silent, and still, and not speak unless spoken to. Nasser and her mother would do all the work of pacifying and coddling the European. As she came to her gate, she nodded to a groom, who held her horse at the ready. She grasped the rein and swung up into Farshideh's saddle, pressing her knees into the creature's shoulders, shouting, 'Hai!' Farshideh leapt forward, like a shot from a pistol, her long strides devouring the distance between the Golden and Ruby Palaces. Nasser had sent no more messages since that morning, but her mother had said, that afternoon as they talked together during the heat of the day, that she had a particular gift for her, and would present it to her that night at supper. Azaraksh knew that her mother had a penchant for bestowing large, lavish gifts upon those she favoured, and was eager to find out what this one consisted of.

The streets of the city were empty but for sleeping beggars, scavenging dogs, and the occasional police officer, and Azaraksh's progress to her brother's palace was unhindered by the day's customary market-traffic. She was surprised to find how short a ride it was, from one end of the city to the other, when the most direct streets and the widest bazaars were unoccupied.

When she arrived at the Ruby Palace, she dismounted and handed Farshideh's reins to an attendant. She paced through the gate and up the stairs, straightening her turban and coat as she passed a set of mirrors in the hall. Having assured herself that her appearance was presentable, she hurried into the dining room, and bowed to Nasser and Mahd-e.

'Your Majesties,' she saluted them, and stood. Glancing round, she noted that the European was not yet in attendance. 'And where is our esteemed guest?'

'He is here, but he will not be joining us until later.' the sultana smiled. Azaraksh's brow knit. What was her mother planning?

'Very well.' she moved forward, to her seat at Nasser's right hand. Mahd-e was seated at the opposite end of the table, as was customary at a formal dinner. She accepted the cup of wine offered to her by an attendant, and sipped from it, casting an inquiring glance toward Nasser as she did so. He looked away quickly. Azaraksh lowered her eyes. Then he was collaborating with the sultana, in whatever she was planning. 'I was much astonished,' she began, choosing her words carefully, 'when I received your message, Nasser, inviting me here tonight.' Mahd-e raised her eyes toward her daughter, and gave her a warning glance. Azaraksh pretended not to notice. 'I must admit, I was very near to refusing, for my days are filled with the running of Mazenderan, and I know your task of choosing a suitable husband for me is demanding. Perhaps we could better manage our time by using the hours we beguile to...' Nasser wordlessly laid a hand over hers. She sighed. 'Nasser, you know there is no time for banquets, as life is now. Perhaps later in the year, when rustlers and bandits are less of an epidemic, and the Ra's al-Asad have moved on from the outskirts of my grazing land, there will be time for social niceties. I executed eight men five days ago, cut off four hands and two tongues before I left Mazenderan. And these were for the crimes of our own people, within the city. A man beat his wife to death one day, and nearly drowned his newly born daughter, because he is too poor to pay her dowry, or believed that he will be, in nine years.'

'A man has a right to put his own affairs in order,' Nasser murmured. Azaraksh leapt up, slamming her fist into the table.

'No man has the right to murder his wife. No man has the right to take the life of a fellow Muslim, be it a woman, or a fellow man.' her voice was low, and level, and the sultana recognized the danger in goading her further.

'You are quite right, my love,' she said, standing, 'and I agree, that man should be put to death.'

'I had him beaten, and his goods forfeit to the state.' the Lioness fell back into her cushion, her hands falling to her sides, while her eyes lifted to her brother's. 'How can you say a thing like that, Nasser? How could you? Sometimes, I scarcely recognize you anymore.' she lifted her cup to her lips and drank deeply. She had not been prepared to quarrel with him so early in the evening, but she could not have said she was sorry.

'Your sense of justice, my love, grows by the day.' Mahd-e said quickly, in an attempt to pacify both children. Nasser fidgeted with his goblet.

'I apologize, Nasser, for insulting you, but your statement was callous.' she attempted to catch his eye.

'Have you not a diversion for our royal sister, Sultana?' Nasser said suddenly, in a louder tone than was necessary. Azaraksh allowed herself to be bullied into silence.

'In fact, I have.' the sultana's eyes lighted up, and she clapped her hands twice. The lights dimmed, and a trail of smoke rose from the ground. Azaraksh's legs tensed beneath her, and she instinctively gripped one of the ornate daggers in her kooshak. She had never liked magicians, but they seemed to humour her mother. Illusionists had always put her on edge, especially if she could not, by cunning and logic, determine how they performed their tricks.

'Lioness of Mazenderan...Lioness of Mazenderan...' the voice was gentle, in her ear, directly, but also, from everywhere at once. She started, and glanced at her brother. His eyes were still trained on the thin trail of smoke, which was thickening by the moment. Her mother did not seem to hear anything, either. 'You are the Lioness...the Lioness...' the voice grew in strength, no longer a flutter of breath, and now identifiable as a male voice. 'You are the Lioness of Mazenderan.' it was a sonorous voice, tuneful to hear, and, oddly enough, did something to put her at ease, though she could very easily have described it as ominous. 'You are the Lioness.' the voice repeated.

'And who are you?' she demanded, under her breath.

'I am...' there was a pause, and the trail of smoke grew into a cloud, which could easily hide a man, 'the Favrasi!' the last word was shouted, and both Nasser and Mahd-e leapt from their cushions at the sound of it. There was a flash of fiery, red light, and a form stepped out of the smoke. 'I am a dead man made to dance. I am an old soul given a second chance. I am the one who will comfort you. I am an Angel, and the Devil, too.' The figure was undoubtedly male, and matched the voice almost perfectly. He was tall, surpassing Nasser by a head and a neck, and the sultan was nearly six feet tall. He had slender shoulders, built with a facility and agility that many cumbersome men lacked, and a cat-like muscularity which displayed his obvious strength. All that Azaraksh could see of his clothing, as he was, as of yet, a silhouette, was that he was dressed after a European style (and was, indubitably, the 'diplomat' her brother had described), and there was something white glittering over the uppermost half of his face. The smoke faded, and the lights were turned up, but only a little, and she could now see that the white was a mask, probably made of ivory. It was beautifully made, a sensual curve of artistic integrity, fitting perfectly over the high forehead, with an orifice for his eyes to see through. It curved over his cheekbones, covering his nose, but leaving his lips bare. It was terrifying, and mystical. As he stepped forward, into the light, Azaraksh studied him with a single glance, as though she were sizing up a potential enemy.

He was, undoubtedly, a dangerous man, she could see that in the sinuous way he glided out of the shadows to strike a dramatic pose before them, his arms outstretched above his head. He had dark brown hair, possibly half a foot long from the base of his skull, and braided with black and red thread. This she noticed quickly, for no native of Mazenderan willingly bares his head, or lacks a turban or astrakhan. The next thing she saw were his eyes. They were eyes, as she had never seen before— as luminous as the sun and of the same flashing, burning gold. They were deep and intense, concentrated both on his performance, and on her, and she was certain she detected a poignant undercurrent of sorrow. What she could see of his face was angular, and Western, but tanned so deeply so as to be nearly the same colour as her own. His forehead was high, but creased once or twice slightly, with a wrinkle born of melancholy rather than age. From brows of jetty raven descended a long and elegant, rather supercilious nose. His lips were as a woman's, full and lush, but set in a cynical twist. His chin and jaw were strong, his cheekbones long and slender, with slight hollows beneath. It was a comely enough face, striking because of its exotic foreign flavour, but it was also something less than human, and something more.

He stopped before Azaraksh, and clapped his hands together. When his palms separated, there danced a fire between them.

He twisted his fingers, and the licking, leaping, vermilion flames formed a precise replica of Azaraksh, dressed in lion skins, twirling round like a belly dancer. Before she could think of how improper such an image was, it went down on all fours and became a lion. He continued to sing. 'Lioness of Mazenderan, I am the Favrasi, Favrasi sent by Allah, the One God, demon sent by Shétan, Angel birthed by Darkness...' the lion grew, leaping from his palms to dance on the table, until it was quite the exact size of a real King of Beasts. Azaraksh was tempted to glance across the table at her mother, but she was afraid to take her eyes from this man. The magician's eyes were haunting, hypnotizing, and his voice was like a mantra. 'I am the Angel. I am the Music.'

Her head was swimming, the way it did when she drank too much wine, but this was not the fault of liquor. This had something to do with the stranger's own intoxicating presence. As she watched, the figures of scantily clad dancing girls melted from the shadows behind him and moved toward the fiery lion. Nasser would, undoubtedly, be drawn toward them, now, and away from any illusions the European would display to Azaraksh.

His voice was lifting with every moment, and she risked a look into his eyes. Azaraksh was not easily frightened, for she had locked wills and swords with desert warlords and hardened criminals before, but never had she encountered such frigidity and motionlessness of expression coupled with so much fire and intensity, and such an ethereal colour. Her breath hitched in her throat. 'What is it you wish?' she whispered, overcome.

'To serve the Lioness...the Lioness of Mazenderan!' he suddenly reached forward, clapped again, and the room was plunged immediately into pitch-blackness.

Azaraksh panicked, ripping both her daggers from their sheaths, the icy song of metal against metal humming starkly in the air. After a few moments, the lamps were lit again, and the room was empty of the lion, and of the dancing girls. Azaraksh's back straightened and she would have blushed at her ridiculous appearance. She was standing, ready to fight, while the stranger was seated beside Mahd-e, sipping coolly from a chalice, as though nothing had happened. The table was now scattered with their supper, a smattering of delicacies and wine, fresh game and fruit.

Azaraksh sheathed her daggers in a single, practiced movement, seating herself quickly and shaking her head in bewilderment. Mahd-e smiled at her son, who busied himself by ringing for attendants to serve them. Mahd-e put her hand on the stranger's arm. 'My children, I wish you to give honour to a dear and ancient friend of mine. He is the Favrasi. Favrasi, these are my children, Nasser, the Sultan of Persia, and Sher Azaraksh, the Shah of Mazenderan.'

The magician inclined his head to the both of them. 'I am the Favrasi.' he said simply, in his mournful and sonorous voice. Though pleasant, it held scarce half the intrigue it had while singing, and neither did his eyes glow quite so brightly. Azaraksh and Nasser nodded politely to him.

Attendants entered, and began busily filling their master's plates and wine vessels. The Favrasi said not another word, and the banquet continued in silence. It was strange, but Azaraksh felt as though both Nasser and her mother expected her to entertain this man, this creature, this visitant Angel from another world. She played with her couscous, and contemplated her roast lamb before clearing her throat. 'Has it been long, Favrasi, since last Allah brought you to Persia?'

'When last I stood on your pleasant soil, the Palace of Mirrors has been built only two weeks.' he seemed to smile, or rather, his lips curved politely. The expression did not reach his eyes. Azaraksh nodded. That would have been fifteen years. 'I was very young,' he continued, 'and still had not perfected by craft as a magician. Howbeit, I may boast that I brought your mother many diversions in the warm afternoons, while, during the heat of the day, she was overcome with ennui. In fact, she has petitioned me to do the same for you, Sher Azaraksh, and that is why I have returned, at her bidding.'

Azaraksh's eyes narrowed, and she glared at her mother. 'Oh, say you like my gift, my love!' Mahd-e exclaimed at her daughter's perplexed expression. 'I brought him here, all the way from Greece.'

'I...' Azaraksh felt her brother's eyes on her, and would have spoken the truth, if she had not quarrelled with him only minutes before. However, as she had, she decided she could do with a bit of diplomacy. 'I am greatly pleased with this magician, my mother. I shall give him a place in the Sapphire Palace. He will be a welcome diversion from the dreary business of statecraft.' the triumphant grin Mahd-e shot at Nasser was not lost on the vizier, neither was the scowl from her brother. From that moment, the sultana became the most charming and animated of hostesses. She inquired after the magician's health, and on France and Greece, and Spain, and how he had travelled, whether he would be glad to return to Mazenderan, and other sundry, exclusively boring subjects. As for Azaraksh, she turned toward her food, and, not entirely at ease with this 'Favrasi,' she kept her fingers curled round the hilt of a dagger all evening.

As the banquet neared its end, Azaraksh's anxiety grew. Was, she, then, required to take her mother's unusual gift home, as she had promised? She did not like the look of the man, and, now that she thought on it, she realized how easily hypnotized she had been by his voice and his illusions, and disliked him all the more.

She had been tempted to over drink over the course of the evening, as a pretext for refusing the magician, but there seemed to be a bond, an unspoken trust between him and her mother. It was apparent in the way their eyes met, and how easily the sultana smiled at him, doted on him, and laughed so readily at all of his most subtle witticisms. Well!

Rising from the table, she bowed low to Nasser, them Mahd-e. 'I am afraid I must retire. Unlike our greatly exalted Sultan, I am not interviewing suitors, but returning to my post at Mazenderan, and I must retire early, if I am to make good time in the morning.'

The man rose, and, in turn, bowed to their majesties. 'Then I shall follow you.'

Mahd-e smiled complacently, glancing proudly in Nasser's directly. 'We bid you good evening, Favrasi.' she shared a look with the magician, which unnerved Azaraksh.

Holding her head high, she turned and left the dining hall, the Favrasi trailing two paces behind her. She instructed a servant to ride to the Golden Palace to fetch Leila, her maid, but the Favrasi held up a hand. 'One moment, your exalted greatness,' the title sounded cold and sardonic rolling from his tongue. 'I was instructed by your mother to abide with you day and night. This entails that I sleep in your boudoir to protect you, making your maidservant dispensable. I can sleep on the floor until accommodations are made, and I promise you, your majesty, that I do not snore.'

'I am afraid that is impossible.' she snapped, turning away from him, to walk up the staircase.

'I was ordered by your mother, Sher Azaraksh.' his voice was firm, uncompromising. She stopped, and pivoted on her heels, glancing at the servant, and dismissing them with a gesture. The Favrasi's eyes glowed faintly in the dark. 'When you were an infant, and your mother held you for the first time, I was at her side. She made me promise, to _swear_ on my love for her that I should care for you, if she so petitioned me, and she has. She has instructed me to be always at your side. It would be a perjury of my word were I to disobey, even in accordance with your wishes.'

Azaraksh blinked. 'You left Persia before I was born.'

'You were born in Turkey.' he lifted a shoulder in a shrug that was purely French. 'You will trust me someday, Sher Azaraksh. Tonight, I ask only for a space on your carpet, and, perhaps, a narghile to smoke.'

'I do not know you.' frustrated, the shah stomped her little foot. 'All I know of you is that, perhaps, you and my mother conspired, at my birth, to keep me safe. I do not need safekeeping in my own boudoir, magician, in my brother's house.' she paused, and thought for a moment. 'Perhaps, while we are travelling, you may share my tent, but my mind will not allow me to give you such liberties on the night I meet you.'

He inclined his head. 'I understand. But will you permit me a room adjoining you?'

'Certainly.' she leant upon the banister, and reached out to him. He stopped short, staring at her outstretched hand. 'Come on, now!' she demanded. He threw an arm out, so quickly that she scarcely saw the movement, and caught her hand. She stiffened, but before she could react, he was looking gently into her eyes, with a hesitant smile on his lips. 'Come, then.' she smoothed her ruffled feathers, and suppressed her fear of this mysterious Favrasi, this death angel, wielder of the vengeance-scimitar, leading him wordlessly up the stairs. He seemed to know his way about quite well, even to where the sister of the Sultan would take her residence while visiting, and stopped before the room she usually occupied when she stayed in Teheran. 'Here, you may sleep here.' she motioned to the door across the hall. 'I will see you in the morning.'

He bowed to her. 'In the morning, Sher Azaraksh.' the smile that twisted his lips was unexpected, and unnerving. She watched him back into his appointed quarters, and it was only after she had seen him close his door, and heard him lock it, that she allowed herself to retire.


	3. II Red Sky at Morning

II – Red Sky at Morning

_Tyger, tyger!—burning bright _

_In the forests of the night,_

_What immortal hand or eye_

_Could frame thy fearful symmetry?_

—William Blake, _Tyger_

She woke, to a male voice, singing in French. She stretched languorously before she realized that the clarity and beauty of tone could not possibly have proceeded from a phonograph. She forced her mind into fully conscious lucidity, sitting up, and drawing a dagger from beneath her pillow, leaping out of bed at the intruder. As her eyes came into focus, she saw Leila, with terrified eyes, being hurled into the path of her knife by the mysterious Favrasi. Twisting her arm before the blow could land, Azaraksh fell heavily against her maid, ignoring the girl's squeal. As they hit the ground, the Lioness of Mazenderan got to her feet, adjusting her grip on the dagger and glaring at the masked European, who stood coolly across the room, with a small cup of coffee in one hand, and in the other...Azaraksh blinked at the dark, coiled rope held poised between the long, slender fingers, and shuddered. 'I cannot suggest that you use that one me, Favrasi.' she made an effort to prohibit a snarl from marring the cold dignity of her voice, but was not entirely certain she had succeeded, for a slow smile expanded the lips of the unwelcome interloper.

'And I, your Majesty,' his tone was sardonic, mocking her with the very royal title he appended to her, 'cannot suggest that you continue in such an unfriendly vein with me. Your mother informed me that you were to be under my protection at every moment possible.' in a fluid, practiced motion, he bent, and flicked a pair of sherwal at her. 'Dress your mistress, Leila.' he snapped at the shuddering maid, who was only just picking herself off the floor. Bowing, he made for the door. 'I will wait in the antechamber, your Majesty, to escort you to breakfast.' He latched the lasso at his belt, in plain view, and set the coffee cup on the desk. Azaraksh turned on Leila sternly.

'What was he doing in here?' she demanded.

The girl fell on her face before her royal mistress. 'Oh great Shah, he said he was your new bodyguard, appointed by your royal mother, and that you would be grateful to me for allowing him in. If I erred, your Greatness, I crave forgiveness.' Any other servant would have been obligated to suggest that Azaraksh strike the head from her shoulders for such impertinence, but Leila had been in the service of the Lioness since their childhood, and could thus expect clemency.

'You did no wrong, Leila. Neither did he lie altogether. My mother gave him to me, as a gift, but he is a magician, an entertainer, and will not be given the privileges of a bodyguard.' Azaraksh stood still and held her arms out that her maid might dress her for the day. 'Let me wear the green robe today, Leila, and do not hinder my head with a turban. I will wear only my fez.'

Leila glanced at her mistress, calculated quickly what she would need to transform a half-sleeping teenaged girl into the Lioness of Mazenderan, and got quickly to work.

Mahd-e glanced stealthily round the corner, drawing back before the magician had a chance to see her. He was sitting beside her daughter's bedroom door, with his back to the wall, lighting matches, one-by-one, and watching them burn down to their ends, flame licking his fingertips, but producing neither outcry nor any apparent sign of pain.

'You might as well watch me in the open, Mahd-e,' he murmured, inhaling the air deeply, 'it is of no effect for you to be roaming the halls and dodging those you propose to hold discourse with.'

'You always know, Israfel,' she stepped forward, in time to catch the brief flicker of pain in his eyes as she said the name, so long denied to both of them.

'I am not that angel, Mahd-e,' he murmured, golden eyes meeting hers squarely, 'not then, not ever.'

'Did my daughter appreciate your method of waking her?' Mahd-e repressed the delicious shiver she always experienced upon closing the distance between her own body and that of this remarkable creature. He shrugged up his slender shoulders and crushed a charred matchstick between his fingers, smearing them in its residual soot.

'She came at me with a dagger, and snarled at me in a manner befitting her title.'

'She is my daughter.' Mahd-e smiled pridefully.

'She looks nothing like you. Who is her father?'

The sultana appeared shocked, and pressed a hand to her heart. 'Why, how dare you? It is Mohammad Shah Qajar, and do not mistake it!'

'One would never know with you, Mahd-e.' he grinned, and raised his kohl-covered fingers to his face, tracing a thick line from his lower lip to the extremity of his chin. 'I feel Persia seeping into me again.' he sighed, and impulsively pulled her up against him. 'It saturates me,' he leant down, inhaled her hair, and the sultana melted into his embrace.

'And you gratify it, make it whole.' she lifted her head, looked into him. 'You must allow me to call you Israfel, my Favrasi.'

'As it pleases you, my sultana.' he dropped his lips briefly to her forehead. 'Your daughter, Mahd-e,' he murmured, disengaging himself gently from her, 'will take some time. It will be difficult to make her see me.'

'You caused me to see you, Israfel.'

'You heard of me, first, and sent for me from the Ninji-Novgorod.' he replied easily, rubbing his blackened fingers against one another. 'And when you saw me, I paraded myself as the Living Corpse, unmasked, in all my hideous glory.' he laughed bitterly.'

'Then why do you mask yourself now?'

'Because, Mahd-e, I have since learned that there are benefits besides beauty to wearing it.'

'You seem very changed, my Favrasi.' she whispered, astonished at her own emotion. 'She must have been very beautiful.' He blinked at her, eyes inquiring, but before he could say anything, the door beside them opened, and Azaraksh Shah Qajar entered the antechamber.

'Your Highness,' she bowed to her mother, and straightened as her eyes, like onyx gimlets, settled on the magician. 'Come, Favrasi. You will accompany me today.'

'Azaraksh,' Mahd-e caught her daughter's arm, 'will you walk with me in the garden at noon?'

'As you wish. And tell Nasser that he will speak with me at his leisure.' she turned down the hall, head high. 'Come, magician.' she called, without turning. With a wry smile, he shrugged his shoulders up and waved his hand after his purely French manner, and hurried after his new mistress.

Azaraksh's mind was racing. What she had seen between her mother and the European, both in the hall moments ago, and the previous night at supper, unnerved her. She could not account for it. The lovers her mother had taken since the death of Mohammad Shah Qajar had been so entirely discreet that Azaraksh had not known of them until after they had been dismissed, and even then, the young shah was not entirely certain she had knowledge of every affair. Therefore, it was impossible to assume that this European magician, or 'Favrasi,' or whatever in hell he was, could be ingratiating himself into the sultana's bed. Mahd-e flaunted the man, as she might a new pet for her ménagerie, and yet treated him with kindness, intimacy, even respect. Azaraksh had no doubt that her mother loved the man, this insipid foreigner--no. No, certainly not. He was not insipid. His shadowed eyes and masked face betrayed the complete enigma he was. The young Lioness of Mazenderan did not doubt that she was walking with her back to an exceedingly dangerous man, but already, though the same compulsion as she feared him, she trusted him to remain loyal, if not to her, then to her mother.

Stopping short, the girl whirled on her heel and levelled her gaze at him. He stopped smoothly, perhaps a little closer than decorum might dictate, and the edges of his lips quirked upward. Azaraksh became very abruptly aware just how much larger the man was than she. He stood perhaps two heads taller, and his lithe, feline build threatened the strength of a wild jungle cat. 'What is your name, Favrasi?' she inquired, her insides jangling at the proximity of so intimidating a creature. She could faintly smell him, a wafting scent of myrrh and sage, rather than the pungent odour of sandalwood most Persian men favoured. She stopped herself short of inhaling more deeply, and took a judicious step backward. He smiled, but remained silent. 'You name.' she demanded again.

'I am the Angel of Music, your Favrasi.' he replied coolly, seemingly unaware of her rising ire. His stomach was knotted hard. So, Mahd-e's beautiful daughter was a woman of action and commands rather than coy flirtations and deft manipulations of her power and charm. He wondered fleetingly how such a small, frail woman, or girl, no less, not older than thirteen, could seem so solidly rooted into the marble upon which she stood. He was having a difficult time of controlling her thus far, as he had expected, despite Mahd-e's warnings, a ball of lace and fluff, a young siren blossoming into girlhood and taking advantage of his state as an inferior male. He had expected the Shah of Mazenderan to underestimate him, which she very clearly was not. Her stance was wary, her eyes guarded, and her hand, perhaps unconsciously, rested on the scimitar tucked into her kooshak. As they stood, silently confronting one another, he heard the subtle grind of her teeth, and checked a smile. So, she _was_ too young to have learnt perfect self-control.

'You will tell me your name, magician, or I will have your tongue severed from your head.' her voice was almost a whisper, and husky with steely promise.

Fighting the urge to swallow the dry lump forming in his throat, he stepped back, and gave a sweeping, courtly bow. 'Forgive me, your Majesty, if I offend. I have had many names, and cannot remember the first. I have been the Living Corpse, the Angel of Music, the Opera Ghost, and that Ugly Bastard. You may pick and choose, as you like.' her look of confusion was the greatest reward he could, at that moment, have hoped for.

'Very well.' she was about to turn away again, but she paused. 'Walk before me, Favrasi.' she murmured. 'I do not like you at my back.'

'I am to protect you, your Majesty. You must trust me.'

'I do not.' she replied briskly, and watched, with satisfaction, as his lips compressed in irritation. Well. At least he knew enough of her royalty and position to remain silent at so direct a command. Despite his initial contravention of her order, he bowed his head and swept by her, heading silently down the hall toward the dining hall.

Azaraksh studied the way he moved, the combination of serpentine and feline grace he exuded--the cool elegance which was both masculine and animal. She had hoped to derive further information concerning him by studying his motions, but was confounded in her purpose. As they entered the dining hall, she sat at the low table on a cushion, and ordered the hovering servants to bring her dates, coffee, bread, and a portion of pheasant that they had dined on the previous night. The magician stood to her side, in a guarded, deferential silence, his head bowed.

Her meal was brought round, and, as she ate, Azaraksh thought it strange that a man who had dined as her equal the previous night should this morning take Leila's place at her side. If she were back in the Sapphire Palace, at Mazenderan, her bodyguard, Rahdim, would have stood beside her, and walked at her back. She had refused to allow him to accompany her to Teheran, for various reasons, the first of which was that he was beginning to lose himself in his work and ignore his family for the services he performed to his country. The perfect absence of any noise of conversation, broken occasionally by a servant rushing hither and thither to serve her, unnerved the Lioness, and she very nearly requested the Favrasi to sit across from her and partake, but she knew that her pride would not see it meet. Ignoring the urge to turn and stare in unabashed fascination at the magician, she inhaled her food and continued to consume it

Nasser stood in the shadow of the hall leading from the dining-hall into the kitchens. Gone were the trappings of the great Shah-in-Shah, Chosen of Allah, Sultan of Persia. Rather, he was garbed in the dress of a servant—a plain brown tunic and sherwal of rough homespun. Though his servants recognized him, they had been ordered to behave as though they did not, when he signified his caprice by dressing so. There was no one to gainsay him, for who would dare? He was Nasser al-Din Shah, and his whims were law.

Presently, he observed his viceroy of Mazenderan and her newly gifted Favrasi. When his mother had taken an impulsive tour of Greece not a month ago, Nasser had thought nothing of it. However, upon her return, she had presented the singing monster to her son, as well as her stubborn plan to plant him in Azaraksh's domain.

Nasser had never questioned either his mother or sister's loyalty; he knew that they both loved him, and believed in shared blood. Both were noble, and far too high-minded to betray him, but this European magician had present ties only to Mahd-e, and Nasser's father, in fact, had driven him from Persia in an attempt to kill him. Well, Nasser was not certain he was comfortable with the foreigner alone with Azaraksh. She was thirteen, only just entering her womanhood, and, as such, was vulnerable to emotion, as young girls were. She was also a powerful shah, governing the largest province in Persia. If this Favrasi creature managed to ingratiate himself with her enough to exert any sway over the girl...Nasser shook his head. _No, such a thing is impossible, and utterly unthinkable. I dishonour Azaraksh to think such things, when she is the most loyal creature in the world._ His hard brown eyes softened marginally as they lit upon his sister, delicately sipping a small cup of Turkish coffee, and he could see the tension in her posture. The Favrasi stood beside her, silent and perfectly still, in the stance a long-trusted bodyguard would have taken. There was only one man, beside himself that Nasser trusted with Azaraksh, and that was a man she had left at the Sapphire Palace in Mazenderan.

Forcibly restraining himself from marching up to his mother's chambers and demanding to know what she was thinking, Nasser gave a final glance at his youngest and most trusted viceroy, and retired to his study, and his work. His desk was covered with letters from princes of neighbouring countries, as well as a few nobles of Persia, couching in the most formal and flattering terms their proposals of marriage to the Lioness of Mazenderan. Since 'Sher Azaraksh,' as she was called, had attained marriageable age a year ago, Nasser had been carefully considering a suitable husband for her. So far, he had found none, neither among his own noblesse, nor the foreign cads and fops who wished a claim to the Persian throne for their descendants. As little as Nasser liked to think of it, the odds were very high that if he chose a foreign prince for Azaraksh's husband, their children would become a problem for Nasser's, whereas if a local noble worthy of her could be found, they might control native Persians, with unswerving loyalties to a single country.

Sighing deeply, the young Sultan randomly selected a letter, and opened it. After briefly scanning its contents, he rang for a scribe. The man entered, a slender, bald creature of perhaps thirty years, garbed in flowing white robes. 'Write as I dictate,' began Nasser, and, steeling his nerves for a long day of diplomacy, began to speak.


	4. III Lions of the Desert

III – Lions of the Desert

_Whether at Naishapur or Babylon,_

_Whether the Cup with sweet or bitter run,_

_The Wine of Life keeps oozing drop by drop,_

_The leaves of Life keep falling one by one._

—Omar Khayyam, _The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam_

Azaraksh never preened. She looked into mirrors solely to judge whether she appeared as much the Shah of Mazenderan as was required. She had often lectured her mother on vanity, as the Sultana stood before a glass and altered her hair, strand-by-strand, until it suited her, pouting and blushing and batting her eyelashes. The Lioness of Mazenderan despised vanity—it was a weakness she could not afford.

She sat with her back to the mirror as Leila slid a gilt comb through her hair. The serving-girl was silent. She knew her mistress was displeased with her for allowing the mysterious Favrasi into her bedroom that morning. Though the Shah of Mazenderan would have made light conversation with Leila, she remained silent; it was worth the stilted silence to have obedient domestics.

The door opened, and Azaraksh glanced up from her hands to see who would dare to impose upon her privacy at this time. Her mother's face appeared in the room, the rest of her body following. Behind her, Azaraksh could see the outline of the Favrasi in the hall. 'Azaraksh, my love,' Mahd-e smiled gently.

'Good afternoon, mother. I would have been on my way to walk with you in the gardens in a matter of minutes.'

'I sought you out because my joy would not be deferred.' The Sultana glided across the room, and, taking Azaraksh's face in her hands, kissed her daughter tenderly on the forehead. 'You may go,' she addressed Leila. 'I shall attend to her hair myself.' Taking the comb from the bewildered maid, Mahd-e continued to tame Azaraksh's thick black mane. Leila bowed, and retreated.

'You had a thought in your mind, mother, or you would not have come here so early.'

'Azaraksh, do you doubt my affection for you?'

'Certainly not. But I know you. Something has come to your attention, and you wish it to be addressed straightaway.'

'Of course, of course. There is no misleading you with sweet words. You are so different from your brother in that regard. He prefers that his vanity remain intact, than that I am honest with him.' She sighed. Azaraksh's eyes narrowed. Her mother played a close game. 'You are right, and I will not pretend I have no purpose with you, my love.'

'Then what is it?' the girl demanded, gently, but firmly. She knew her station yet, and would not incense the Sultana without cause.

'It concerns the Ra's al-Asad.'

Azaraksh's eyes went cold. 'Na'il'Ikrimah will hang if he so much as sets a toe in Mazenderan.'

'I know, my love, that he is an odious suitor to you. Nasser and I feel much the same, for who weds the Shah of Mazenderan to a goat-herder?'

'And a stealing goat-herder at that.' Growled the girl.

'His requests grow more insistent, bordering on demands. You were eligible for marriage two years ago, when your courses began. He insists that you be given to him.'

'We shall refuse, as we always do.'

'Nasser and I have had many words, and we have seen many suitors. While we have found many eligible, we have agreed on none. Still, it is a matter of the greatest importance that you marry. And soon.'

'I will not hasten my marriage for the minor threat of a few bandits. And you confuse me. You write me, when I am in Mazenderan, saying that you appreciate my office, that you would have none other in government of my province, and now you say you will give me a husband as soon as one can be found?'

'Listen, my love! Listen! There was the consideration of several men—young, powerful princes and nobles, yet they were set aside because I knew they would, every one, attempt to rule Mazenderan, and perhaps, Persia, though you, and through the children you might bear him. I am determined to find a man powerful enough to bring you honour, young and handsome enough to bring you pleasure, and weak enough that you can rule him. Or at least, rule him with the help of the Favrasi.'

'I…what?' Azaraksh was not certain she was hearing her mother correctly, and craned her neck to look the Sultana in the eyes.

'I will tell you about him someday, my love, but for now, you must trust me, that he is canny and powerful, yet would not betray you for all the gold in the world. He has loved you, Azaraksh, since your birth, and pledged himself to you the moment he saw you, mewling in my arms. You must trust him. Use him.'

'I do not know him, or his ways.'

'You will come to. The chances are high that he will save your life someday.'

'And would it not be his duty, nay, his privilege, to preserve the neck of so exalted a child of Allah? Is it not written that we, the Islam, the submitted ones, shall be given the submission of the infidels in exchange for our obedience?'

'Do not mistake the Favrasi for an infidel, Azaraksh.' Mahd-e's tone was flat and cold, and the young viceroy nearly felt herself shudder as the hand in her hair became as dead and still as that of a corpse. 'The Favrasi is among God's most exalted creatures, my daughter. You would be wise to remember this, and repeat it to yourself often.' Azaraksh was no fool, and understood when speaking was merely truculence, so she kept her own council on the subject, instead replying in the gentlest of tones.

'My intent was not to calumniate him. He is European, and, as such, can scarcely be expected to follow the submission, as we do. You know, mother, that I am much ignorant of the world. I rule Mazenderan—I know its people, and the people of Persia. To me, this is enough, and better than to be an angel or peri.'

Mahd-e laughed, a still, ironic laugh. 'You have been too well educated, child, but still, you know scarce enough of humankind. But yes, to answer your question, we _are_ best beloved of Allah, and it would be the Favrasi's duty were he to preserve your life. He has sworn to God that you will be free of fear so long as he draws breath, and, if it were possible, from beyond the grave he will strike a thousand fold the one who dares lift their hand against you.'

'Truly, it is a promise only an angel could ever hope to fulfil.'

'Do you not see an angel in him, my love?'

'I do not. I see a strange and disconcerting man. I suppose I could trust him after a time, and learn to understand him, perhaps, to indulge you.' Azaraksh spoke slowly, employing all her skill and knowledge of her mother to retreat, as it were, from the fray she had induced by suggesting the Favrasi to be an infidel.

'This brings me presently to my purpose for speaking today with you.' Mahd-e fastened the end of Azaraksh's braid and slid down to sit beside her. 'I will speak to you of Rahdim al-Saadi.'

'My bodyguard since birth.' Azaraksh sensed the oncoming suggestion of her mother, and combated it feebly by initiating Rahdim as a solid ballast who had never been out of her life.

'Not so. In fact, the first man to hold you, nay the first mortal, was the Favrasi. He stood with me through my travail, and during my furlough in Constantinople, as I recovered from the birthing of you, he was the man at my back and yours.'

'Do not seek to convince me of his man's merit, for I know he has much, but Rahdim is a brother—nay, a father to me.'

'I see you understand me well. It is a joy, to be the mother of so intelligent a girl as you.'

'I will not send Rahdim away.'

'That is not what I ask. What I wish is that you give him time away from you, that he may realize that you are not the child of his body, and that he has a daughter, and sons of his own.' Azaraksh lowered her eyes at these words. She knew that no man was perfect beneath heaven, and though Rahdim was as near as ever a man came, he did neglect his own family to benefit his duty. Sometimes she wondered whether it was a sin to be loved by a father more than the man loved his children. Rahdim had married his wife some eight years ago, but he had never been away from Azaraksh for longer than ten days in the thirteen years he had been at her back. His eldest son was six years of age, and his two other children, twins, a boy and girl, were nearly four. Azaraksh doubted they would ever know their father as well as she did, and there had been times when she had wept over it. 'You see that I speak truth. Why should I conspire to part you from your nearest and most passionate supporter with no claim? We are the rulers of the people, but not their betters, my child. We cannot part a man whose soul is so well made by God from his dependants.'

Though the shah recognized the truth in Mahd-e's words, she was loath to admit this Favrasi as her primary bodyguard. 'You must give me time to acclimate myself to this. Rahdim…his presence has ever been with me. It would be strange to suddenly be…bereft of him.'

'I understand, my love.' Mahd-e insisted, placatingly, her hands resting on her daughter's shoulders. 'You love Rahdim, and he loves you, but there is more to his story than his occupation.'

'I am more than an occupation to Rahdim, and he is more than a bodyguard. I do love him, mother.'

'I know. And you must understand, that I do not disapprove of him. He is a wise man, and a dangerous one. He is dangerous as a friend, to our enemies, and certainly, I wish not to alienate him from the favour of the throne, as he would be more dangerous yet as an enemy, an ally to the Ra's, or to any who seek to jeopardise your station.'

'And how does the Favrasi come into this all?' Azaraksh inquired, curious now. She knew there was much history between her mother and this strange magician, but she could not, for the life of her, tell what it was. Perhaps if Rahdim were here…he knew all the intrigues of the old court of her father, the deceased Sultan, and could have informed her as to this stranger's identity straight away. However, Rahdim was in Mazenderan, and here she was, in Teheran, with a stranger sharing secrets with Mahd-e. There was no prying secrets from the sultana.

'He will tell you himself. I promised to allow him the choosing of time, in revealing the truth to you, on the condition that you should know when necessary.'

'That is scarcely any choice at all.' Azaraksh reflected. As soon as the words rolled from her tongue, she regretted them, for her mother's eyes flashed black fire.

'Is it not?' Mahd-e swept her robes back from the young Lioness.

'Do not take insult, mother.' Azaraksh turned, and stood, her eyes level with Mahd-e's. 'I respect your judgment, my sultana, but I do not believe that is any choice for a man to make.'

Mahd-e did not look at the Lioness, and for all her poise, she seemed, for a moment, undone. Regaining herself, with a toss of her hair, she flicked her hand imperiously. 'Well, do you accept my gift, or not?'

'I have.' Azaraksh was still, her back straight, her shoulders relaxed. The sultana recognized the stance, and the stubbornness and pride in it, and would not say more, now that the girl had come into this black humour.

'It is well, and I thank you.' There was a pause, during which neither quite knew what to say.

'So, what will you have me do?' Azaraksh returned to her seat before the vanity, and, conspiring with the mirror, managed to finish the end of the long braid that had been only just neglected, tying it off with a richly jewelled clasp.

'I would have you speak with him.'

'This Favrasi?'

'Yes.'

'It is well. So long as he ceases to hide behind corners and frighten me when I wake.'

'He will sleep in your room tonight,' Mahd-e said quickly. 'Arrangements are being made for a divider and a cot.'

'No.' the Shah of Mazenderan rose from the vanity, and, reaching for her fez and a brace of pistols, was imperiously leaving, when her mother caught her by the arm.

'Do you not understand, Azaraksh, that I am afeared for you?' cried the sultana. 'Why would I give you a new bodyguard if I had no reason to be afraid for your life? This is not a caprice of mine, my love; you must trust in this!' her voice was strangled, almost as though every word had been throttled from her.

'You know somewhat, that you do not wish to tell me.'

'My love, you know that the Ra's al-Asad are not simply a desert tribe of marauding bandits.'

'Yes. They are fanatics who believe that they alone have power over the desert, and the commanding of it.'

'Have you ever witnessed a covey of their raiders disappear into a sandstorm, without fear of the weather, and without a trace?'

'Everyone who has hunted them has witnessed such a thing. What, do you now believe in their ridiculous claims? Why, mother, not a week before I came to Teheran, did I execute two of their raiders, for sheep stealing and murder. They have drawn back from my borders, and have done no evil since. Tell me I have done an ill thing, and I will repent me of it.'

'There is no repentance to be done for your birth.' Mahd-e shook her head sadly. 'My love, you must understand…'

'Do you mean to say that they wish my head?'

'No. If only it was your death they had a longing for, that could be easily enough averted. There are always men who would kill the sultan, or his mother, but there is nothing to be gained by murdering the Shah of Mazenderan, a mere girl, who will be married off within the year.' Azaraksh's eyes went cold at this. 'No, my love, it is not your head that they desire.'

'It is my hand. I know. Na'il'Ikrimah had the audacity to write directly to me. I was unamused by his joke.'

'It is not a joke.' Mahd-e said, quickly, quietly. 'I will tell you, that when your father banished the Favrasi from our shores, he flew with the Ra's al-Asad to the desert, and from thence, northward, and back into Russia. He spent some weeks with them, knows their ways, and has had personal traffic with Shahin'Ikrimah, the father of Na'il. He will be a panacea to this errantry of mind I have had these last weeks, my love. Your safety and honour are paramount to the crown.'

'It is well, then.' Azaraksh bowed her head deferentially. 'Shall we, then, seek some entertainment?'

'Come. I have ordered music played in my ante-room, and your favourite narghile filled.'


	5. IV TêteàTête between Kings

IV – Tête-à-Tête between Kings

_My King addressed the soul of my flesh:  
_

_You return just as you left.  
_

_Where are the traces of my gifts?_

_We know that alchemy transforms copper into gold.  
_

_This Sun doesn't want a crown or robe from God's grace.  
_

_He is a hat to a hundred bald men,  
_

_a covering for ten who were naked._

_Jesus sat humbly on the back of an ass, my child!  
_

_How could a zephyr ride an ass?  
_

_Spirit, find your way, in seeking lowness like a stream.  
_

_Reason, tread the path of selflessness into eternity._

_Remember God so much that you are forgotten.  
_

_Let the caller and the called disappear;  
_

_be lost in the Call._

_-Rumi, from_ Love is a Stranger

The air, as ever, in the sultan's study was perfumed with oil of sandalwood and the rich smoke of his chibouque. Nasser had finished by his diplomatic duties, and was smoking languidly, stretched to his length upon a settee, his eyes half closed, his limbs suffused in a flush of pleasure. In the corner, a _gedikli_ was playing the tar, softly, catering to the lazy ambience of the room. His scribe was addressing letters in the corner desk, and the scratch of his pen over his foolscap paper was the only minor annoyance the sultan was aware of.

'Good afternoon, Majesty.' Nasser started up at the foreign voice, but the Favrasi raised a long hand, his movements as graceful as a dancer's. 'No, do not disturb yourself, my Lord. I hope, of course, that you are not averse to a little tête-à-tête? ' The sultan indicated his consent by waving his hand toward a divan to the side. The Favrasi sat, and as his robes settled around him, Nasser observed the catgut lasso at his side with some wariness. 'My Lord, you know I have only wished to be your servant.'

'Rather, say, you have wished to be the servant of my mother.'

The Favrasi inclined his head. 'I have observed more loyalty, I admit, to her than to the sultans of Persia.'

Nasser nodded. 'Will you take refreshment?' at a sign to the negative from the European, he shrugged. 'Well, what is your purpose with me, sir?'

'I wish to speak with you concerning your sister.' When Nasser made no reply, the Favrasi continued. 'You know that it is your mother's will that I become to the Lioness of Mazenderan what I once was to its little sultana.'

'In the day of my father's rule, you were mightier than many of his viziers. Indeed, I know, you performed many bloody services for my father.'

'My entertainments for your mother were less than civilized, in the European mode. I see, also, that she has grown out of her lust for blood, and looks now to the safety of her daughter. She has little enough to fear for your safety. You have your guards, your seraglio is loyal to you, and your spies have a deep network in Teheran. Your sister, in Mazenderan, is not so secure.'

'Your presence will only bring more controversy to her reign. A woman, and her foreigner—it will not be as the people wish. They will be insecure in her rule.'

'As I understand, she has the people well in hand. Your mother has few concerns as to her immediate safety.'

'Then why are you here?'

'I understand that you are choosing a husband for your sister, and that she will likely be married within the year.'

'This is true. I am considering two men equally, who are both worthy of her and more. Rest assured that I select no one whose honour or motives are in any manner suspect. I love my sister, and will have no marriage of mere convenience superseding her right to rule Mazenderan as its shah.'

'This is know, but the man who is honourable today may turn evil with greed tomorrow, or next week. Men are not to be trusted, and women far less so. I am to accompany your sister to Mazenderan as her personal bodyguard. I will be replacing Rahdim al-Saadi, as you know.'

'All this I know.' Nasser reached for a new chibouque, lighting it on the dying embers of the other. 'Come to your point.'

The Favrasi seemed to squirm for a moment, and Nasser raised a brow, astonished that the cool of his mother's favourite was so strangely disquieted. 'She does not seem to like me.'

'I beg your pardon, Favrasi?'

'Your sister. Azaraksh. She does not like me.'

'How, precisely, is this my trouble?'

'You know I am as loyal to her as to my own body, perhaps more so. I was sworn upon the first light in her eyes as she was born that I would guard her, even beyond the grave.'

'Pardon me,' the Sultan began, 'but I will speak frankly.'

'His Majesty has every right, and I bid him due deference.'

'I urge you, also, to give me your true thoughts.' Nasser added, almost as an afterthought of politesse. 'I doubt,' he began again, peremptorily, as though he believed he might be interrupted, 'that you quite understand so binding an oath. As I know you Europeans, you are an impetuous and…emotionally effusive race. You travel with your feelings, and perhaps your pledge to my sister was not made so much upon your respect for her divine ordination as the daughter of a great Sultan, but rather owing more to your love for our mother. When you speak of travelling beyond the grave, that is heresy in the eyes of the Prophet.'

'Then so be it, my Lord.' The Favrasi's voice was low, solemn, greatly unlike the casual aloofness he had hitherto displayed. 'I tell you that I never made an oath I did not keep, least of all to a woman. I tell you that I have loved your mother with the love of a guardian, and your sister has inherited my loyalty. I make no oaths to divinity, for no god has the right to call me theirs. You say that to pass beyond the grave, and return is heresy? I tell you that I have done so, and more than once. Why do you question me? You were a child, when I was a man, and when you were dandled on my knee, I made you, also a promise.'

The Sultan compressed his lips. It seemed to him that the mystery enshrouding the Favrasi was not a thing to be penetrated, or even questioned. He remembered a day, in the bright autumn sun, with gold from his own vestments stinging his eyes, and the spectral, black shade that had crept across the garden courtyard toward him, with a noose in his hand. He remembered the drought of fear spiralling up his throat, for he had witnessed the skill with which the assassin wielded his chosen weapon, the release of his bowels as the rope of twisted catgut flew toward him, remembered the squeal he had emitted, like the cry of the hunted rabbit. He closed his eyes against the image of a dagger curving toward his neck, the flash of sunlight against the bright steel blade, and the luscious crack of bone as the Punjab struck its target. He remembered turning, watching the target of the lasso fall lifelessly into the yellow sand, the heat of the body, the sharp exhalation of breath and spirit, and the burning golden eyes of the Favrasi, watching him, protecting him.

'What is it, then, that you wish of me?' the words were jolted from his lips, as though by a convulsive shock.

The Favrasi pondered for a moment, and, without lifting his eyes toward the Sultan, said, 'Do not speak to her of me. Give no attempt to convince her of my loyalty, for in due time, I will present my own proofs. Allow me reign in her mind, and her life.'

'It is a very great request you make of me.' Nasser murmured. 'Nevertheless, I cannot say that my trust will be ill-founded in you. It is a gift befitting a prince, that I should offer my sister openly to you.'

'It is an honour that I do not take lightly.' The Favrasi rose, bowed, and left the chamber with a sweep of his robes, and a flash in his eyes.


End file.
